Joel passed out the moment the pull released him.
The transition had been too much—speed beyond comprehension, darkness folding around him like a fist, then sudden stillness. In the blackout, a dream clawed its way in: sharp fragments of home, Mum's jollof steaming on the table, Osaru's worried voice on the phone, Dad's steady hands explaining anatomy. Then the bullet again, the burn, the fading. Sweat rolled down his face even in sleep, cold tracks against skin that no longer truly felt temperature. He thrashed once, twice, then forced his eyes open.
He was already awake. Or awake enough.
The sky above had no clouds—only a vast, unbroken red sun hanging low, casting everything in bloody amber. The ground stretched desolate and endless: black sand that gleamed like obsidian under the strange light, dunes rolling away to nowhere. No wind. No sound except his own ragged breathing.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms, knelt, pressed a palm to the sand. It felt warm and cold at once—contradictory, wrong, like touching something that refused to decide what it was. He curled his fingers into a fist, grains slipping through.
"How am I going to survive here?" The words came out quiet, more to himself than anything else.
The sky answered.
A crack tore open overhead—clean, violent, like glass shattering in reverse. Light spilled from it, and another angel-like being descended. No horns this time. Instead, a jagged scar ran down the center of its forehead, pale against its otherwise smooth, ashen skin. Six wings, same as Tiffsili's, but these looked worn, edges frayed as if from long use.
Joel stared. Guess that's where the horns were.
The being noticed the look. Its voice arrived in his mind—deeper, rougher than Tiffsili's.
"I am here to tell you how things will go from here on out."
Joel rose slowly, legs unsteady. He extended a hand out of habit—old reflex from meeting people back home. The angel regarded the gesture with faint disapproval, as if touch were something forbidden or simply pointless. Joel lowered his arm.
The being continued without pause.
"You will remain in this world until you grow strong enough. When ready—in ten years—you will be brought out. If not ready by then, twenty years. Longer, if necessary."
"Wait!" Joel's voice cracked. "You're saying I could spend twenty years here?!"
"Yes. If need be."
"But the other one—Tiffsili—told us it was ten years max. One year if we got strong fast!"
The angel tilted its head left, confused for a heartbeat, then righted itself as understanding dawned.
"Ah. Tiffsili handled your welcome." A dry note entered the voice. "She softened the truth so you wouldn't panic. She wasn't wrong—you can leave in one year if you become strong enough. The world decides. Not us."
Joel exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Not cheated. Not entirely.
"Then how do I do that?"
"You live. You fight. You grow. The world judges when you're ready."
Joel met the creature's gaze, determination flickering behind the fear.
"I'm listening."
The angel's wings settled.
"In this place, your body has been… adjusted. We removed the limiter on agility. You will feel lighter. Your reflexes sharper. Reactions faster. You will move in ways you never could before."
Joel shifted his weight experimentally. It was true—his limbs felt loose, buoyant, like gravity had loosened its grip just enough.
"Don't interrupt," the angel said sharply. "The adjustment exists because the things here are still faster and stronger than any human biology allows. This is not invincibility. You will not outrun birds or shrug off blows. Only adapt quicker. Every month, a self-healing factor activates—wounds close, bones mend. And you will have access to a shop: sell what you obtain, what you kill. Buy what you need."
Joel's brows lifted. "So it's literally just like a game."
The angel ignored the comment.
"A barrier surrounds this area—three square blocks. Beyond it, the world waits. Behind you is a hut. Rest. Eat. Sleep. Once a day, a Hell's Keeper will arrive. You will train with it for two months. After that, the seal lifts. You wander. You survive. Or you don't."
Joel raised a hand.
The angel sighed—long-suffering.
"I was finished anyway. Speak."
"What exactly am I learning in those two months?"
"How to use the body you now have. It will feel foreign. Unfamiliar. You will struggle at first. That is the point."
Joel nodded slowly. A small, determined smile tugged at his mouth, even as his mind spun with fear, grief, and fragile hope. Dead. Or close enough. But if another chance existed—even here—he would take it. He would claw back to them.
"Go to sleep," the angel said. "Your two months begin tomorrow."
The rift swallowed the being whole. Gone.
Joel's legs gave out. Not from injury—from sheer mental exhaustion. He sank back to the black sand, shiny and strange under the red sun. For long minutes he stayed there, staring at nothing, breathing in air that tasted faintly of iron.
He didn't want to be here.
But he was.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, a quiet resolve hardened: if this was the price of seeing his family again, he would pay it.
Eventually, he rose. Walked to the small hut behind him—simple, rough-hewn, waiting.
He stepped inside.
And closed the door on the desolate world.